


Precious Fragile Little Thing

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Series: Little Sparrow [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Animal Death, Big Brother Dick Grayson, Brotherly Love, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne has a heart, Damian Wayne is Robin, Dick Grayson is Batman, Gen, Gen Batfam Christmas Stocking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, bfcs2018, soft bois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:16:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17026824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: Dick steeled himself as he climbed the stairs. It seemed no matter the circumstance, there was always a fight with Damian. Some days, the prickly little boy felt like more of a burden than the cowl.Created for AlmondRose's BatFam Christmas Stocking prompt "older sibling mentoring/giving advice to younger sibling" mixed with "angst with a happy ending."





	Precious Fragile Little Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlmondRose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlmondRose/gifts).



> The title comes from "Little Sparrow" as sung by Dolly Parton. Also I must note that no animal dies in this fic, but a previous (upsetting) death is discussed.

Damian was late for dinner. In the grand scheme of things—in the grand scheme of Damian—it wasn’t a huge deal. But he knew the rules. He knew he was expected downstairs at the table at 6:30 sharp. It was 6:45, and the boy was nowhere to be seen.

Dick steeled himself as he climbed the stairs. It seemed no matter the circumstance, there was always a fight with Damian. Some days, the prickly little boy felt like more of a burden than the cowl. Though Dick had grown up with Bruce Wayne, a man who could hardly be classified as open by even the most generous stretch of the imagination, Damian was closed off in ways that baffled Dick. He wasn’t just reserved, he was arrogant, haughty, and _mean_.

Dick tried to tell himself that the boy had endured horrific trauma and manipulation, most of which Dick himself still didn’t know but could guess. Add to that being a stranger in a foreign land, abandoned by his mother, and freshly orphaned... Still. He was exhausting. Dick missed not worrying over being stabbed in his own home.

Reaching Damian’s room, Dick rapped out a soft knock on the door. He frowned at the suspicious amount of scrambling noises that came through the wood.

“Damian? You’re late for dinner.”

“I will be down shortly, Grayson!”

Dick’s frown deepened. Damian’s voice sounded a touch too high, and Dick didn’t like the snappy tone. With Damian, he had learned to pick his battles, but the constant disrespect grated on his nerves.

“I’m coming in,” he warned, then pushed open the door.

Damian stood in the center of the room, poker straight, his hands balled into fists at his sides. That, at least, was normal. The boy always looked a shallow breath away from brawling.

Dick’s eyes scanned the room, looking for blood or weapons or... he wasn’t sure what else, but it would be bad. But nothing looked out of place. Damian kept his room rigorously clean, with a military barrack’s precision. Even after several weeks at the Manor, the room was spartan in its decoration, most of which belonged to the original guest room decor, despite Dick’s offers to help redecorate. Dick couldn’t tell if Damian truly didn’t care, or if he still hoped—or feared—that his mother would return for him.

“The food is getting cold,” Dick said after a long, fraught pause. “Wash your hands and come downstairs, please.”

He expected Damian to argue, but instead the boy gave a short, jerky nod of assent. Dick gave a hesitant nod of his own, then turned to leave.

Something chirped.

Dick froze. He heard it again, a quiet chirping, like a phone alert or dying watch battery. As far as he knew, Damian owned no device that made a noise like that.

Dick pivoted back around to face a frozen Damian. Dick’s eyes scanned the room again, and his gaze landed on a shoebox poking out from beneath Damian’s bed. Damian’s sneakers had originally come in that box, and Dick knew for a fact that the box was usually shelved in the closet with the shoes inside them. It should not be on the floor. It should not be shoved under the bed as if hurriedly hidden. It should not be making noise.

Dick and Damian stared at each other for two speechless heartbeats. Then Damian scrambled backward, and Dick lunged.

“Give it to me.”

“Stop it!”

“Damian, give it—”

“No, don’t!”

“Damian, I swear, if you’ve built another bomb, I’ll—”

“Grayson!”

Dick, having wrenched the box from Damian’s hands, stared down at its contents. Its contents stared back.

“Don’t kill it.”

Dick dragged his attention from the still-cheeping baby bird in the box up to its rescuer. 

Damian didn’t reach toward the box, but his whole body angled forward, as if magnetized. His lips were pale and thin, his jaw twitching, his cheeks high with color. Instead of clenched, his fingers were spread wide at his side.

“Don’t kill it,” Damian said again. “Please.”

The word sent a jolt down Dick’s spine, as raw and crackling as lightning.

“Of course I’m not going to kill it.”

Dick shifted his hands under the box, careful not to tip the cardboard structure as he sat on the very edge of Damian’s bed. “What is it?”

Damian hesitated, then sat next to Dick on the bed. “ _Passer domesticus_ ,” he answered, his voice low and tight. “A house sparrow.”

Green eyes flicked up to Dick’s face. Not finding boredom or dismissal, Damian continued on cautiously, “You see the plumage pattern here, and the pink beak?”

Damian traced the air above the features of interest. “This fledgling is approximately two weeks old. Its nestling gape has diminished, and its first down has been overlaid with feathers, indicating that it is old enough to leave the nest.”

Dick tilted his head to the side, studying the bird. The creature had stopped cheeping and was eyeing Dick with equal curiosity. Next to him, Damian was rigid with tension, but still as glass.

“What happened to its wing?” Dick rested the box on his knees so he could point with one hand at the slight, bent wing held akimbo from the bird’s tiny body.

“It is broken.” Damian’s voice was small, so small, and tight as a white-knuckled fist. “Though it is old enough to fly, I hypothesize that it was pushed out too early and damaged its wing in the fall.”

Dick extended one finger and ran its tip gently beneath the bird’s chin, marveling in the softness of the down. Next to him, Damian sucked in a sharp, hushed breath.

“Why did you ask me not to kill it?”

Dick kept his eyes fixed on the baby bird, which had resumed its cheeping, but in his periphery watched Damian’s throat bob as he swallowed. No answer came, so Dick rephrased.

“Why did you think I would kill it, Damian?”

“Grandfather says that a creature that cannot serve its purpose is a creature that has not earned its breath.”

The words were said with no emotion that Dick could read, but he began to wonder if that static tone was, in itself, a tell. There was so much he didn’t know, so much he wished he could ask Bruce. He didn’t know how to navigate this baited labyrinth.

“And what is this little one’s purpose?” Dick asked, once again drawing his fingertip across the bird’s feathers.

“To fly. To hunt. To participate in the ecosystem. It can do none of these things with a broken wing. It will die without assistance.”

Damian remained unnaturally still. He didn’t fidget, didn’t shift, didn’t squirm. His fingertips didn’t drum on the bed. His legs didn’t bounce. His knees didn’t knock. He didn’t reach for the box or try to snatch it away. He didn’t look at Dick.

The question slipped from Dick’s lips before he could consider the wisdom of asking. “Has something like this happened before? Did your grandfather kill an animal you were trying to rescue?”

Damian’s head dipped, his shoulder slumping for the briefest of moments. But then his neck stiffened, bringing his chin up as he said, “It was a dog. A puppy with a crippled paw. Grandfather broke its neck.”

Dick repressed a shudder, then bit back several sharp things he wanted to say about Ra’s al Ghul. Demon from hell or not, he still held a powerful influencer over Damian, and Dick doubted he would win over the boy by disparaging the man.

“Well,” Dick said at last, “that’s not how we do things here.”

He shifted the box over and placed it gingerly in Damian’s lap. “You did the right thing by rescuing it.”

Damian accepted the box with a reverence usually reserved for priceless antiques and actual bombs. It was, Dick realized, the first time he had seen any gentleness in the child. It gave him hope, however slight.

“Damian.” Dick waited until Damian lifted his gaze before speaking. “No one in this house will hurt an animal except in life-or-death circumstances. Do you understand?”

Damian gave a nod, a slow and tiny gesture, but a nod nonetheless.

“Good. Now let’s see about getting it some food tonight, and tomorrow we’ll take it down to the wildlife sanctuary so they can work on that wing.” Dick stood, daring to give Damian’s spiky hair a ruffle as he rose.

“Grayson,” Damian grumbled, but he rose as well, the box carefully tucked under his arm.

“We should name him,” Dick decided as they left the room. “Just until tomorrow. Do you think if we call him Baby Robin, it’ll give him an identity crisis?”


End file.
